


Happy (Not-Quite-)Valentine's Day

by tentativelyteal



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Deductions, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Mind Palace, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, People Will Talk, Sherlock's Violin, Valentine's Day, it is what it is, not quite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 10:55:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9892277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tentativelyteal/pseuds/tentativelyteal
Summary: It's Valentine's Day, and John has just got back to Baker Street (home). Somehow, the topic of John's girlfriends (or lack thereof) gets brought up again, amid deductions, violin notes, and questions (un)answered.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sprinkled in some references from A Study in Pink, The Great Game, His Last Vow, and Sherlock's inability to recall (Graham? Gavin?) Lestrade's name.
> 
> Sadly do not own the characters (if I did The Final Problem would not have happened).
> 
> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoy it <3

Heavy, but not ungentle footfalls knock on the threshold of Sherlock’s consciousness. The detective shoves the file on the 197th type of ash (Habano cigar, Cuban, dark brown, rich and spicy) back onto the shelf, with an uncharacteristic gracelessness that he will never let John witness. He does not wait for the mahogany door of his east-wing archive to slam shut before he ascends the stairs as quickly as how he once flew down the staircase in the gloom of the Lauriston Gardens. Wasted cement and dust swirl up a little as the clean, beige rays cast long diagonal shadows through the chiselled banister and slant intermittently into his eyes. His own footsteps now fall into an easy syncopation with the ones that echo down the halls of his mind palace, as he nears the surface to answer the irresistible call, his own set of Morse code -

He comes around to find himself lying on the sofa in his dressing gown, fingers steepled underneath his chin, just in time to deduce from John’s strides climbing up the seventeen steps to 221B.

_Heavier than usual, unstable but not very noticeable. Suggests uncoordinated movements, slightly inebriated. Conclusion: back from a drink, two pints. With whom? Date: 14th February, Tuesday, conventionally known as Valentine’s Day. A date? No, no signs of any romantic entanglements in the recent two months. (In fact, no signs of any romantic attempts too - filed away for later examination.) Possible candidates: (?) Lestrade or Mike Stamford. Valentine’s Day, Mike Stamford would be with his wife. Therefore, Lestrade. (Smug satisfaction - at what? Irrelevant. Archived.)_

The door opens and John steps through it, eyes already searching and finally resting on Sherlock. He rolls his eyes as he sees his friend has apparently not moved an inch since he left earlier in the evening.

Sherlock’s eyes flick almost imperceptibly at John as he crosses the living room, letting out half a relieved sigh when he sinks into his armchair. “John, you do know that getting drunk does not compensate for your lack of a girlfriend on this frankly _ridiculous_ day right.”

 _Not even making it a question, pompous git._ “First, I’m not drunk, this is called- tipsy. Second, I’m not compensating for my lack of a girlfriend, no thanks for shoving it in my face though,” John huffs a breath, “I was out with a mate, having a nice chat is all. And third, so you finally heard me when I said I was going out for a pint with Greg-” _Greg? Oh, Greg… Lestrade?_ “- this time? No going on talking while I was away?”

Sherlock lets his hands fall from his Thinking Position, turns his neck a little to grace John with an “are you an idiot” raise of an eyebrow, “seriously, John, I hardly need to hear you to know what you’ve been up to.”

“Oh of course,” John shakes his head a bit wearily, but obviously amused, “the great Sherlock Holmes can deduce everything. Well, except for how I can get myself a girlfriend who will last more than two weeks maybe.”

“Boring.” The detective waves away the sarcastic comment as he rises in one single fluid movement to grab his violin and bow resting in the case on the armrest, then flops down into his armchair opposite John’s, crossing his legs. Terrifying screeching sounds soon follow.

The girlfriend topic again. Tiresome. Sherlock registers the pulsing of annoyance spreading, channelling through his fingers to the bow and strings. “For God’s sake Sherlock! Either you put that down, or you play something nice for a change.” So he whips a last chromatic glissando. Just for petulance’s sake.

The could-be violinist lets out a dramatic long-suffering sigh, “something _nice_ it is then, if you wish.” Sherlock meets John’s eyes, and sees a mildly surprised twinkle at his compliance. Carefully this time, he eases out the first mellow note before he looks away from John to focus on the music.

Tipsiness and fatigue now forgotten, John stares raptly as he relaxes further into the armchair and just, listens. As the notes slide smoothly as daffodil seeds tickling the tips of fresh grass on mild downs, and melody swells and fills their cluttered flat with warmth like how the icy electricity in Sherlock’s usual razor sharp eyes melts into an almost azure autumn sky, John is once again reminded of the absurdity of anyone who thinks this man sitting before him as anything less than a miracle. _All blind, the lot of them_ , he thinks, and luckily catches himself before he shakes his head in disbelief as the private concert draws to a close that seems to have even lulled the car horns and engines of buses into a drowsy sleep.

The doctor feels the corners of his mouth to have stayed stubbornly up-turned while he watches Sherlock place his beloved violin back into the case. He makes no effort to hide what must be a stupid grin even as the detective turns back to face him. “That was absolutely lovely,” he says in an almost whisper, not wanting to break even the slightest of the night’s peace that is so hard to come by, “what’s it called?”

To his confused surprise, Sherlock drops his gaze, almost as if he was embarrassed. The man clears his throat, “it - it doesn’t have a name. Yet.” He steals a glance at John, who just suddenly realised, “did you - you wrote that yourself didn’t you?” If anything, his smile just seems to grow broader, a little teasingly. And Sherlock finds himself stumbling over his words, “it’s just, a thing that I - eh, play. At night, when…when you can’t sleep.” Although he tries to end with a cool note, it undoubtedly belies his unease when he resolutely examines the light reflection on his leather armchair.

The silence brews for a few seconds, still companionable, but permeated with a thicker flavour like a bottle of old red wine. At last John chuckles, “you’re really not helping with the rumours you know.” That gets Sherlock’s attention. He furrows his brows, “what rumours?” John keeps his expression light, “if you go all sweet and adorable like this sometimes, people will never stop talking.”

Sherlock immediately rolls his eyes, looking almost offended, “sweet? I’m not, _sweet_.” But when a few breaths have passed, uncertainty increasingly grows, which he has no doubt is reflected in his expression that is half-shrouded in shadow with his face turned away.

He cocks his head as he tentatively weighs his words, “John, do you, are you very much bothered…if people talk?”

John looks a bit surprised. Understandable really, as direct questions even in the periphery of feelings are usually as disgusting to his friend - his best friend - as Anderson is. When he fails to answer immediately, he feels the weight of Sherlock’s all-penetrating gaze on his face. Oddly, this does not unsettle him even the slightest tonight - perhaps it is the music, or the almost sentiments behind that, or even the, god-forbid, easy domesticity wrapping around them - John feels very much at peace tonight.

So it does not surprise him, though maybe it surprises Sherlock, as he meets Sherlock firmly in the eyes and smiles, “no, I suppose not.”


End file.
